


The Holmesless Network

by DragonWannabe



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: College!John, Established Relationship, Fluff, Homeless!Sherlock, M/M, Teenaged!sherlock, but mostly they're adults, they're only young in John's memory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-01
Updated: 2014-07-12
Packaged: 2018-01-14 04:41:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1253245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonWannabe/pseuds/DragonWannabe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John doesn't like Sherlock using the Homeless Network. Sherlock wants to know why.</p><p>Mostly John's POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This entire work was inspired by the pun "The Holmesless Network", hence the title.
> 
> Un-beta'd. Not britpicked.
> 
> If you see any typos, let me know.
> 
> This is my first fanfic, any and all criticisms are appreciated.
> 
> Please do not repost anywhere without my permission.

It wasn’t as though he actively went out and looked for homeless kids. In fact, he usually paid them no mind, he was going through college, and he didn’t have the resources to even donate change, medical being as expensive as it was. The cost of residence in London was also difficult, but having two roommates made it possible, his part of the rent no more than £65 per month, the school paying for much of his residency costs; having a part time paid internship wasn’t hurting anything either.  
He had to work hard to get to where he was, his final year of college. Throughout primary and secondary school he studied more than anyone, or even anything else, not wanting to fall behind. He knew that even with all the scholarships he could earn, unless he had a full ride, he was still going to take too much money out on school loans, and even with a steady income, it would take him years to pay them off. When school let out he relaxed a bit and played on a recreational rugby team, becoming good friends with most of the people he played with.

His parents made just enough money to successfully raise two children, him and his sister. They couldn't afford to take week long vacations like his friends could, or to buy them new cars once they could drive, but they did make enough to keep them healthy. Food was never lacking, and his mum was an excellent cook, creating five-star meals from the varied materials in the house. When he finally moved on to college, his parents decided that his mum’s cooking skills were much too good to squander, and they opened a restaurant of their own. In the past two years it had become wildly successful. But it still couldn't pay for his college tuition. 

Unwilling to borrow tens of thousands of pounds to pay for it, he did the only reasonable option he could think of, to promise his service to the military, and they would pay for what his scholarships could not. He thought it was fair and helping out those who fought to defend his country and what it stood for did not repulse him. It simply made him proud.

The years it took to finish his education were long, and hard. He doubled up in many of them, finding that although the work was harder, it would make him able to pay his debt back to his country that much quicker. 

By the time he finished, a war in the desert started, and he knew he was going to be called for duty soon, and goddammit, he was proud to do it.  
But this isn’t about that.

This is about that insignificant homeless kid he invited into his house that one week before he was about to take his midterms, and what happened over 10 years later.


	2. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gratious overuse of italics.
> 
> Any way the actual plot to the story.
> 
> Not britpicks, un-beta'd. 
> 
> Tell me if you see any typos.
> 
> First fanfic. Any and all criticisms are appreciated.

“So how the hell did you get such a vast homeless network? Surely they don’t all get along, or want to help someone better off than they are?” John asked after swallowing a mouthful of takeaway.

Sherlock looked at him evenly, and then nodded. “You’re right, shocking as that is, they don’t all ‘get along.’ They sometimes fight, but not among my network. The ones outside of it fight. Some of them hate me, which is downright idiotic, _I_ can’t help it if they don’t have a house to live it. And it’s not _everyone_ in London who’s homeless, John, just a large portion.” He shoveled a bit of take away into his mouth and paused for a bit, John doing the same.

When he didn’t resume speaking, John continued, “Then how did you manage it? They didn’t all just come up to you asking “Is there any spying I can do for you for a bit of spare change?””

Sherlock didn’t answer for quite a while, and then said, “I have my ways.”

“What did you do? Live among them and collect favors?” John was more perplexed than ever on how Sherlock got such a large group of people helping him out, and only for spare change at that.

Sherlock looked surprised that John had guessed accurately, something which rarely ever happened. Sherlock being surprised that is, John being right was often the case, “Actually, yes. Did Mycroft tell you? I keep telling him to keep his big nose away from my business.”

John smiled, first from being right, and then from Sherlock’s complaints about his brother. “You know, I may not be a “Holmesian genius” but I can guess well enough on my own, living with you has taught me that.”

“Please, John, you are hardly a person to deduce well. You barely managed to get that one right.” 

“I didn’t say I could deduce well, I just said that I could do it. If somewhat mediocre.”

“’Somewhat’? John, it is mediocre, and that’s complementing your skills.”

“Stop talking about my lack of deduction skills, and tell me why you were homeless, and when.”

Sherlock looked at him, and asked, “Well, why you would want to hear that, I don’t understand. It’s not particularly interesting, and I don’t remember much of it.”

John snorted, his takeaway finished and on the table, “You? Not remember something? I take it you ‘deleted’ it?”

Sherlock thought for a moment, obviously unwilling to share this piece of information. “I became homeless after leaving university because it was easier to find dealers when I wasn’t constantly trying to slip Mycroft, the cameras weren’t as plentiful as they are now, but he had a man tailing me all the time. And they were actually _good_ at what they did, unlike the fools he has now. It took me less than three minutes to slip the last man he had to tail me. It used to take me ten or more.” He sounded upset at the lack of a challenge that the new guys provided to get away.

John looked dubious, “Are you sure they’re getting worse? And it’s not just you getting better?”

“I was good _then_ , especially with the cocaine in my system. Now it’s just become habit. I think Mycroft only keeps them here to provide me some sort of amusement whenever I go out. He knows of their constant failures.” Sherlock was probably glad his brother kept the security around him, John thought. Although Sherlock would never admit it, he liked the idea that if anyone wanted to get in the house, they would have to make it past them. Mrs. Hudson was safe, at the very least.

“Get back to you being homeless.”

“Really, John, I don’t understand why you care so much. It wasn’t that exciting, although I did learn all of London’s streets, alleyways, and a good majority of the buildings in every area.” He looked smug, but bored already, while telling the story.

“Wait, how’d you remember the routes if you were high most of the time?”

Sherlock looked at John as though he were being purposefully obtuse. “Well, I couldn’t use the same dealer time after time. Mycroft would have found me and forced me off to rehab.”

“Which was a bad thing because…?” John’s voice trailed off, not understanding why Sherlock would try to evade his brother over such a good thing.

“Because the cocaine helped me _think_ , it made narrowing in on a single train of thought and solving it that much easier.” John looked confused and Sherlock tried to think of an analogy. “It’s like when you have the radio tuned to a certain station and as you drive off you hear more and more static from the fading connection. At the same time you reach a new signal, so two songs are playing at the same time. You can’t discern between the two, and it makes focusing on the one unnecessarily difficult. The cocaine helped me focus that signal into one song, and not the two.”

“You do that now.”

“I’m older now.”

“So you just did drugs instead of working on it?” John was incredulous. Although Sherlock was the laziest person he had ever met in shoe leather, the fact that he would have rather poisoned his body than work on fixing his mind boggled him. It was such an important tool in his work, and surely, surely he was proud of it then too.

“No, I tried working on it, but while at university one of my dorm mates frequently smoked pot. The disgusting smell of that stuff made concentrating on anything, including courses, difficult. Having such a superb memory allowed me to pass my classes with little difficulty, even with the revolting smell of marijuana.”

_Humble, thought John wryly._

“But the mind numbing worked for him, so I thought, maybe, it will work for me. Of course, with my superior brain, I would need something stronger than a joint of marijuana. I asked him who his dealer was, who I had correctly guessed, I might add, and whether or not they sold stronger stuff. He said that yes, his dealer did.

“Of course, I went to this boy and asked for anything he had that could give me the high I needed. He had a weak cocaine solution that he readily sold me. It didn’t take much longer for it to escalate from there.” Sherlock frowned, this wasn’t a topic he particularly enjoyed. Now that he could look back on it, he had been foolish at the time, ruining his brain. Sometimes he looked back on it and wondered if it made him stupider. Mycroft certainly seemed to think so.

“So why, exactly, would that make you become homeless?” John was still confused on that point, as though Sherlock hadn’t made himself abundantly clear.

“To keep Mycroft from sending me to rehab. Come on, John, keep up.”

John made a face, which clearly said, _You are such an idiot, Sherlock Holmes, how did you even survive before you met me?_

Sherlock didn’t understand the expression and he was most definitely not going to ask what it was because he didn’t want to show even more ineptitude than he already had this evening.

“Now, what about _your_ run in with the homeless? “

“What do you mean ‘run in’?” John was confused; he didn’t recall doing anything that would give Sherlock that impression.

“You seem to have some negative feelings about them, did one of them rob you whilst you were in college?” he asked, so far having been unable to deduce as to why John had an aversion to using the homeless as spies or informants whenever he needed them.

John sighed, it wasn’t an aversion to the homeless that he had. It was an aversion to the homeless who were addicts like Sherlock had been, and there had been a large few. He didn’t like the fact that Sherlock gave those who he _knew_ were using, but gave them more money to purchase drugs. But he wasn’t going to tell Sherlock that, and he most _certainly_ was not going to let Sherlock get him so off course that he never learned how Sherlock managed to get such a large homeless network.

“No, you’re first. You’re going to tell me how you gained the network, and then I’ll tell you why I don’t like it when you use them.”

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock complied. “It’s really simple actually, if you just thought about it. When I was on the streets I would get them to distract Mycroft's minions or to find me a dealer, and I always paid them for it. I kept them from getting caught by Scotland Yard, although even then it wasn’t that difficult. They were a group of imbeciles even before they had Anderson to muck up everything. They trusted me, and when Mycroft finally _did_ find me and send me off to rehab for the last time, it didn’t change anything. I started with one or two, had them look around for certain people that I needed in my cases. They spread the word that I was still paying for help. They don’t begrudge it when someone else gets money, you know.” Sherlock finished off his story the same time he finished off his food.

_At least he ate_ , thought John, the doctor in him pleased. _Although that was much less complicated that I thought it would have been._

“But that’s not interesting. At all. What is kind of interesting, and it’s only that because I don’t know why you don’t like them, is that you don’t like it when I use them. Despite the fact that they’ve helped us solve many a case.”

John, who by that time had finished his food, collected his and Sherlock’s containers and replied as he cleaned up. “You encourage their drug habit, Sherlock. You used to be addicted, and of course you can tell who is or isn’t currently doing them, but that doesn’t stop you from using certain people who are currently using. I’m a doctor, I can tell too.”

He was facing away from Sherlock and so he couldn’t see his expression, but when his remarks we met with silence he turned around to face his flatmate.

Any expression on his face was quickly wiped clean, to be replaced with a blank slate.

“John. I don’t employ people who are currently doing drugs. Any of them that I use are clean, or at the very least becoming clean. I’m not encouraging people to do what I did. Now that I look back on it, it was foolish and stupid to try and dull my mind with a drug that could very easily kill me.” He looked at John, and continued, “Why are you so worried about them anyway? You don’t know any of them. Your sister is an alcoholic, not a drug addict. Why do you _care_ about these people so much, John?”

John looked at him like he was an idiot, which, admittedly, he could be, and was being at this very moment, “I’m a _doctor_ , Sherlock. I took an oath to help people.”

“But what does it help you _care_ ? Surely caring is even more of a disadvantage than normal in this situation?” he looked puzzled, despite the fact that they had been romantically involved for the better part of a year, his brain was unable to make the connections that John made.

“No… no I guess it is more of a disadvantage than ‘normal’.” John paused, and then added, “I, uhm, apologize for saying you helped drug addicts get their next hit.”

“John, on a list of things that matter right now, your apology doesn’t even make it into the top 500. What is important right now is why you care so much. Yes, you keep saying it’s because you are a doctor and while that may be so it’s also because of something else, you knew a drug addict in your youth, perhaps while you went to med school. So, who was it? Former flat mate? Patient where you worked? Who was it, John?” Sherlock’s voice kept getting more insistent. 

“Some kid I met back in med school. Kid overdosed. He was hardly eighteen. It bothered me. _Still_ bothers me.”

“What about this kid was special?”

“He was bright, and threw it away for drugs. Why the hell would I want to watch others do the same?” When John finished his voice was full of acid.

“How do you know he was bright? If he was high when you knew him, surely his faculties were dulled?” Sherlock pressed.

“Sherlock, we just finished a case. I’m tired. Can this conversation wait until later?”

Sherlock looked at him, and nodded. “Good night.”

“Are you coming to bed?

“No. I’m not tired.”

“Try not to shoot the wall.” John smiled and made his way to the bathroom.

Sherlock most definitely was not going to sleep. He had things to think about, like why John Watson would care about a drug addict he met fifteen years ago.  
* * *  
While changing into his night clothes John thought about the kid. 

_He had never gotten a name. He had shown up to the surgery, having overdosed. John helped to treat him, and before any of the clinic staff knew it, he ran away. None of them expected to see him again, none of them particularly cared to see him again, when he woke up he was a right terror, insulting people left and right. Most of the staff ignored him, but others, especially those who had just finished their second shift, were overwhelmed and had to be excused._

_John had not expected to see him again, especially not at his flat. When he opened the door the first thing he had said was, “What the hell are you doing in my flat? You’re supposed to be at the clinic.”_

_The kid looked at him like he was an idiot, “If I stayed there, they would have found me!”_

_“Who would have found you?”_

_“My family!”_

_John pinched the bridge of his nose, and put his things away. “Why, exactly, would your family carting you off be a bad thing?”_

_The kid looked at him petulantly, and sat back down on the couch. “Because they don’t care.”_

_“That still doesn’t explain why you’re in my flat, or even knew where it was. How did you know where my flat was, exactly? I don’t think you ever told me.”_

_“I hacked into the records at your workplace. Ridiculously easy.”_

_“Why my flat? There are other people who work at the clinic with better living spaces. Why didn’t you go pop in at their place?”_

_“Because I need a place whose owners won’t call Scotland Yard, and who won’t worry needlessly about me stealing anything. I won’t, by the way, in case you were needlessly worrying.”_

_John considered that for a moment, “What makes you think I won’t call Scotland Yard?”_

_“If you were going to call them you would have done so already. You aren’t. You’re still worried about me, God knows why, I am fine. If you want to observe my vital signs you’re more than welcome to. I needed a place to stay for tonight, or until my brother stops looking for me.” He paused, adopted a thoughtful expression and continued, “Can I sleep on your couch tonight?”_

_John pushed his hands through his hair, and sighed. “Yeah, fine. Do you need to take a shower first? I might have some clothes that will fit you if you’d like to wash the ones you’re wearing now.”_

_He looked at the kid properly. He had a mass of dark, curly hair on top of his head, and was a skinny stick. He was a few inches taller than John, all gangly arms and legs. A bit of muck covered him, but his stint at the clinic caused him to be considerably cleaner than he was before he arrived. The same could not be said for his clothes. He was wearing a pair of jeans, well worn at the knees, and a ratty sweatshirt. Despite the fact that he didn’t have much, John was compelled to give him something more substantial to wear, the London winters tended to be brutal, especially for those who didn’t have a home to return to._

_“Yes. That would be nice.” The kid nodded._

_“Fine. Let me go find you a change of clothes, and I’ll go take yours to the wash.”_

_“Ah, thank you. I guess.”_

_“What’s your name, anyway?”_

_“I’m not telling you my name, he could find me. Call me Smith.” ‘Smith’ said._

_“Okay… Smith.” The name rolled awkwardly off his tongue. “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”_

_John went to go find pair of sweat pants, any of his jeans would slide right off of Smith. He rooted around his dresser to find a t-shirt, surely he wasn’t going to leave without his ratty clothes returned to him. Carrying the clothes, he returned back to the sitting room, the kid hadn’t moved._

_“Here, take these. Give me yours once you’re done with them.” John held out the trousers and t-shirt._

_Smith looked warily, and grabbed what was offered._

_“Bathroom’s down the hall, first door on the left. Don’t take too long.” John sat down on the couch Smith had vacated, looking anywhere but the bathroom door. After it closed the first time, a minute later it opened and closed the second time. A pile of clothes lay in the hallway. He fetched them and went off to go run a load of laundry._

_When he returned, Smith was sitting on the couch, wearing a baggy pair of pants and a shirt that was almost too short. Noticing the scrawny look on the kid he made his way towards the kitchen._

_“Do you… do you want anything to eat? I think we might have some peanut butter and jam? Probably not anything more flavorful, sorry. University doesn’t really allow many culinary options.” John asked as he rummaged through cabinets._

_“That will do. Thank you.” Smith replied, making his way over to join John in the kitchen, where he was constructing two sandwiches, one for the each of them. When he was done, John placed the knife in the sink and replaced the ingredients back where he found them. Turning around he handed one sandwich to Smith and sat down at the table. Smith took a tentative bite of the sandwich and, looking surprised at the taste, began to eat much more rapidly._

_“Don’t choke.” John smiled. “When was the last time you ate, anyway?”_

_Swallowing, Smith looked guilty. “Er… last Wednesday?” he muttered._

_John’s eyes widened, “Okay, I’m going to make you another sandwich if you think you can stomach it. Four days is way too long to go without eating.” John stood up, deposited his plate into the sink._

_“I’m fine, one sandwich is plenty, thank you.” Smith tried to reassure him._

_John looked at him apprehensively, “You sure? It’s not a problem if you want more.”_

_“No. No I’m fine.” Smith looked at John earnestly, honesty plain as day on his face._

_“Okay… do you need anything else? Address to a homeless shelter, maybe?”_

_Smith looked at John, “No. No, I’ll manage on my own.”_

_“If you say so.”_

_“If you’re in university, why aren’t you studying for your midterms?” Smith asked, changing the subject._

_John looked at him like he was an idiot and maybe he was. “I would be, but you just showed up at my flat, and I just got back from the surgery. I haven’t had the time yet.”_

_“Do you want any help? If I’m going to be sleeping on your couch, I might as well help you study.” Smith looked genuine in his offer to help._

John smiled fondly at the memory. “Smith” had helped him pass his midterms with flying colors, an absolute genius at memorization. Doing so well on the midterm had really helped him when he didn’t do so well on the final in the spring. When it was all said and done with, “Smith” stayed for only about a week at John’s flat. His flatmates, while not enthused at the idea of a homeless kid with them, put up with it, because John asked them to, and they owed John quite a few favors. Now that John thought about it, the kid really reminded him of Sherlock. They even had the same overbearing brother.

Resolving to ask him about it in the morning, John climbed into bed, and went to sleep.

* * *

When John made his way to the kitchen the next morning, Sherlock was already on the couch, stretched out languidly. 

“Tea?” his voice called.

John made a noncommittal noise, which Sherlock took to mean ‘yes’. It was a yes, but John thought Sherlock was getting way too used to him always making tea.

When the tea was steeping and the necessary sugar was in it, John took both mugs over to where Sherlock was sitting, and without waiting, said, “Did you ever stay with college kids while you were homeless?”

Sherlock looked at him and motioned for the mug, looking bored. Once he cradled the mug in his hands, he looked up at John and nodded. “Twice, I think. I broke into one of their houses. He and his flat mates were fine with me staying, although I did give a fake name. Sherlock isn’t exactly an uncommon name, and Mycroft would have found me quicker than he ended up doing.”

“Why did you break into his house?” John asked, suspicions confirming. He knew Sherlock when he was a teenager. 

“Lestrade took me to a clinic when I overdosed. I think Mycroft paid him to keep an eye out for me. One of the people who treated me seemed safe enough. I broke into their flat, and stayed with them for a week. He had midterms to do. I decided to help him study. He did fairly well on them, from what he told me.”

“You called yourself Smith, didn’t you?” John’s question was more a statement than a question.

Sherlock looked surprised for a few seconds, then his eyes widened and a breathy “ _Oh_ ” was heard. “Well. John. I think we could have called that a trial period. I enjoyed your company then, and I still find you tolerable.” He turned his attention back to his tea.

John reached over to peck his cheek. “Well, I’m glad you enjoyed your stay with me that you felt you needed to make it a permanent endeavor. I have work at the surgery today. I’ll be back around half past five. Text me if you need something from the shops.”

Sherlock was mulling over the fact that it was he, although inadvertently, keeping John from wanting to use the homeless network. He smiled and drank his tea.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on tumblr:
> 
> Wintersoldger.tumblr.com


End file.
